How to clean a toilet.
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How to clean a toilet.
Did you know there is only one remaining Limburger factory in the US (in Wisconsin, of course)? The cheese has often been a source of jokes, but considering it is very nearly an extinct food item, it might be worth trying it while you still can. Whatever you do-do not cook it. Really. The smell intensifies with heat. Once you get the block home, pop it in a glass jar and seal it tightly (yes, I’m serious) and eat it quickly as it spoils quickly.
Growing up in the Midwest, Limburger cheese was always used as a dare. I’m told it is particularly good with a slice of liver sausage, though I cannot vouch for it. I’m serving it this week with black bread and onions. I decided to look around the web for other ideas and found THIS recipe which is attributed to President Harding-but that’s not why I linked it. Read the review comment at the bottom of the page.
Oooh, stinky.
I can’t believe they ruined this kid’s life by arresting him for sniffing his hands after using hand sanitiser. Yes, it was tossed out of court, but he still has an arrest record because overzealous teachers and police need to invent crimes.
Seriously. You send a child to school and if they innocently sniff their hands they’re saddled with an arrest record for the rest of their lives?
Ask me again why I’m homeschooling.
Danny: Mama? I need more chocolating.
Mama: Chocolating?
Danny: Yes.
Mama: Aren’t you already pretty chocolated-up?
Danny: Not fully.
So you see, I can’t very well be sitting here blogging away when I have a three year old in need of chocolating. I’ve my priorities, you know. Besides, I seem to be suffering from a bad case of outrage fatigue at the moment. Maybe I need more chocolating as well. You probably do too. Feel free to come over and hang out at my cooking blog. If the chocolating doesn’t make you smile, the bright pink pickled eggs might.
4 days trapped under an ATV in the Canadian wilderness with only rotting animal carcasses to eat and keep him warm, a man survives the elements and wolves.
I was going to blog about my shitty day, but that seems kinda pointless now.
Wow. Just wow.
-And I always thought Flatlander was insulting.
I laughed so damn hard when read that, it hurt. Then, I remembered a little song a well-known Chicago disc jockey wrote in the 80’s.
"Hey dere, polka boy, go home and suck a beer.
Hey dere, bratwurst brain, go drive your old John Deere
Yah, hey keep your women away, the smell will make us cry
Hey dere, ho dere, yah hey, hey
Stay in Milwaukee and die!"
Cute story about kittens. Everyone loves kittens.
-Throwing up in my mouth that is, not zits or anal warts.
I know, my New Year’s resolution was to stop picking on Cindy and her inability to write a paragraph longer than one sentence-but then she had to hit the little box that says, "publish post."
The comments are really incredible though. Strangely, people just can’t stop themselves from discussing things like this, no matter how inappropriate. My husband remembers going to the doctor as a kid and listening to him describe scraping vaginal warts off the patient before him. He was maybe seven at the time. Sure, it was an Army base-but still.
So. Anyone have any warts, boils, skin eruptions they feel the need to discuss? Well no, not here, you need to go to Cindy’s blog for that sort of enlightened discussion. Strangely, this is one of her better posts. Go figure. I’m hoping the comment thread devolves into people discussing how to read the future in the pattern of people’s warts. Maybe folk cures for burning warts out of your arse with a wood burning pen (don’t try that one at home kids) or dry ice (don’t try that one either). Because now that it has been brought up, I’m utterly fascinated. Isn’t this just the sort of thing YouTube is for? I’m sick to death of kids doing the whole Mentos and Diet Coke experiment. I’ll bet no one is doing home wart removal. At least, before this very moment.
Why yes, I’ll bet feeling a cool breeze up your legs would be refreshing when hammering away at plasterboard.
Via
Progressive Review.
Though as the poet once noted, Nothing Gold Can Stay.
Sure, the thought of drunken teens barfing all over the antique rugs and furniture in Robert Frost’s summer home is pretty awful, but you can be sure if Frost himself had left barf stains on the carpet, they would be guarded as some sort of relic.
I suppose I ought to be outraged, but honestly I’m not. Frost hasn’t been dead long enough for me to think of his summer home as having historical importance. I don’t understand the whole, "make a pilgrimage to the home of a famous person" thing anyway.
In Red Cloud, Nebraska you can tour the home that Willa Cather lived in as a girl. I don’t advise doing it on the hottest day of the year as her upstairs attic bedroom hasn’t had a good airing out since she left it in 1925.
The solemn tour guide will point out the wallpaper Willa put up herself as though it were just shy of changing water to wine. There’s a degree of personality worship in these homes of the famous that’s hard to pin down, but is evident when encountered. Maybe the fact that the museum was still displaying the canned cantaloupe Willa’s mum had on the kitchen counter when she kicked off.
When we visited Eisenhower’s boyhood home in Kansas, we were shown the radio in the sitting room that his mother listened to for news of the War. Then, we went into the kitchen and saw her dishtowels. Interesting? Sure, in a way (oh, you thought I was going to say in a general way, didn’t you?) but no more so because they were in the home of a former president.
Sure, it is awful that kids have so little respect for the property of others that they went ahead and trashed Frost’s home. Still, it was vandalism, not some crime against humanity. Fetishising the personal belongings of people this way kind of detracts from who they were, and what they did. Personally, looking at Robert Frost’s paperweight and letter opener are less interesting than sitting down and reading A Swinger Of Birches. I might be more sympathetic to the outrage if they’d destroyed an original hand-written manuscript, but a broken chair and puke on the carpet does not send my outrage metre through the roof. Can you imagtine if we catalogue and save every item in a modern author’s home? I mean really, someday will we be touring Margaret Atwood’s home to view her half-used box of tampons?
All right, you know where to send the outraged email.
I was sure I had a troll posting at another forum under my name, or nickname anyway. How many "cornmotherne" posters can there be in Eastern Nebraska, correct? So of course, I penned off a furious post to point out that the person spewing their idiocy under my name, wasn’t me.
"Why would anyone want to post as me?" I asked my husband. I rarely write about politics or the sorts of things that get people’s partisan knickers in a twist. I pretty much loathe everyone equally. I make no attempt to disguise my left of left leanings-hell; Pinko is a compliment around here. Fine, if you don’t like what I’m writing about, there are millions of other blogs where you can hear what you wish to hear. I just couldn’t imagine why I would be an interesting target for someone’s energies.
Well, I’m not. What I am is blind. It read commontheme, not cornmotherne.
You know, I have reading glasses, which I’ve now moved down from the perch atop my head to the bridge of my nose where they can do some good.
Gee whiz.
THIS is just too cool.
Drug makers held back information that anti-depressants weren’t as effective as they claimed. Oh my goodness. Oh my.
And some antibiotics are being handed out like candy even though serious side effects are well established. I was once given Avelox for some bronchial infection and ended-up sicker than I went in (though compared to some of the stuff described in the article, maybe I got off lucky). Read more at Counterpunch.
-We’re closing your museum for Auld Lang Syne.
What the heck could the museum need an operating budget of $27,000 (Can) for? Are they actually serving visitors drinks? Have a live band? Dancing?
Still, Guy Lombardo was a Canadian national treasure. You don’t shut down "Mr. New Year’s Eve."
Boo, hiss London, Ontario.
My commentary column is up at Unknown News, if you feel like reading it.
I thought this might be an interesting article about toxins in new cars. The information wasn’t anything new, but the following paragraph made me laugh:
"In fact, just sitting in the garage with the ignition off could be risky. Best-case scenario, the fumes wafting from the materials surrounding you might merely exacerbate pre-existing asthma or allergies; on the scarier end of the spectrum, those airborne compounds could be carcinogens. And the absolute worst-case scenario: The dashboard’s to blame for your small penis."
Yeah, only a man could write that. Allergies, asthma, cancer be dammned-there won’t be concern until there are enough stunted, flaccid wangs out there. This would be a great opportunity to make a joke about sportscars and compensating, but I’m above that sort of thing.
-I’m so glad I’m not THIS woman. Her life is like, totally like ruined. Who knew the scrapbooking crowd was so tough? Who knew this sort of thing made the LA Times?
That’s just so totally unfair like.
Some kid fell down the stairs at a school in Omaha. He wasn’t hurt, but the school nurse checked him over anyway. Then they called his mom and she took him home. And that’s about it. Made the newspaper though. Bet he’s grounded.
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